


I don't want to lose you

by KendraPendragon



Series: My tumblr writing [59]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, F/M, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 03:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16276937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendraPendragon/pseuds/KendraPendragon





	I don't want to lose you

To see him like this is unbearable. 

It hurts. It makes her feel helpless. She wants to help him so very much, but every offer of comfort, every sweet word he has spat back into her face. 

He’s said the most terrible things to her, made her cry and laughed at her for it. 

  
Yet, she doesn’t walk away. 

  
Because she can see the loneliness underneath his rage and arrogance. She can see how sad he is. Sometimes, when his glazed over eyes look at her, she can feel his pain as if it was her own. 

They’re not friends, she doesn’t know much about his family, but she has the feeling that no one is looking out for him.

Or maybe they just don’t understand. 

 

Neither does she, to be honest.

Sherlock Holmes is a mystery.

More intelligent than anyone she’s ever met. His mind works in peculiar ways. It’s fast, observant, sharper than a knife. 

  
All the other kids hate him.

Sherlock worked hard on that, spitting his deductions at everyone. She’s watched it often enough. Every time he is finished and the deduced person runs, or shouts, or sometimes hits him, there is that pain in his eyes and Molly realizes that most of the time, Sherlock doesn’t do this on purpose.

  
He can’t control his mind’s observations. Maybe, she thinks, it’s so overwhelming in that moment that he simply has to let it out. 

  
Sometimes, however, he intentionally does it to hurt people. 

 

Like her. 

 

After he realized she’s observing him he spits his deductions at her, makes them harmful with his use of words. 

Her breasts become his favourite point of attack. He knows exactly that this is one of her most vulnerable points. She doesn’t feel good in her skin.

  
Which teenage girl does, eh?

  
That he uses it to hurt her is somewhat disappointing. 

“I thought you could do better”, she tells him, fighting back tears so hard she almost chokes on them. 

  
He looks at her, completely baffled. 

  
A little triumph - which turns stale in her mouth.

 

Now he’s trying harder. 

 

She lets him, for she has the feeling it helps him and he doesn’t get beaten up so often, which is also a plus. 

 

With a fast beating heart, she sits down next to him in chemistry one day. Usually, the entire row he sits in remains empty. 

  
Sherlock stares at her.

  
Everyone does. She ignores them all and unpacks her books, looking at the teacher expectantly. She is staring, too. 

 

They hardly ever talk, she and him. Molly doesn’t mind. She’s not good with small talk, not good with talking to boys, somehow, which is ridiculous, really, for they are the same species. And yet sometimes, it doesn’t feel that way. 

She has to admit, hanging around Sherlock provides a certain degree of security. It’s like they are in a bubble, separated from the rest of their fellow pupils. 

For a while, it feels almost nice to be with Sherlock. 

 

But then he finds drugs. Or drugs find him. She doesn’t know how it happened, but one day he shows up in class high as a kite. He gets suspended for a month. She worries. Then he returns, only to get suspended again. She cries that night. 

 

Now he’s back at school, not being high.

Not here. But everywhere else. 

 

One night she finds him in the alley next to the cinema, sitting on the ground, wearing a hoodie she recognizes and torn jeans. He’s hunched over. He’s been beaten up again. Molly takes him home with her, lets him sleep in her bed. Her parents are out of town. She watches over him the entire night after she cleaned his bleeding nose and the bruise on his cheekbone. 

 

Sherlock insults her for it the next morning. 

She cries and he flees. 

 

Again and again they do this horrible dance.

  
Somehow she always finds him when he needs her. 

  
Her sheets often smell like him now. She only changes them when they stink of tobacco. He’s smoking now, too. 

 

Her parents call his parents. It makes things worse. 

 

Sherlock hates her now and when she finds him again, he refuses to go with her. So she finds a phone booth and calls her parents, telling them she’s staying at Meena’s. She spends the entire night with him outside on a bus stop bench, quite scared, but holding him in her arms, keeping him warm as he sleeps it off. 

 

“You have to stop doing that. You’re an idiot”, comes his greeting after he wakes in the morning. 

She doesn’t say anything, just leaves. She can feel his eyes in her back. 

 

Sherlock starts taking more, more often. He gets suspended again. 

 

She knows she shouldn’t, her parents explicitly forbade it, but she goes out to find him again. 

  
And she does. 

  
He’s wandering the streets near that small park they both like very much. It’s peaceful here, the sounds of traffic not disturbing the calm atmosphere. 

 

As soon as he sees her, he starts spitting his insults and by the sound of his voice and the sway in his steps she knows he must have taken a lot. She hates that she knows the effects the difference in dosage have in his body, hates that this has gone on for so long without anybody helping him getting clean. 

  
“Stop it”, she shouts.

  
It’s the first time she tells him to stop, the first time she speaks up. She just can’t stand this anymore, can’t watch him doing this to himself any longer.

“Fuck off”, he snaps and pushes her, almost falling over. 

She rushes forward, her arms catching him, one hand in his surprisingly soft curls.

 

As their bodies touch, something happens. She can feel it, can feel that he feels it, too. There is a new energy between them, something hot, electric…gentle. This feeling makes no sense and she looks at him in wonder as they straighten. 

He’s close. Too close. He sways, his bleary eyes staring at her. 

 

“Why?” he asks then, his breath hot on her skin. 

They look into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

 

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

 

It’s true. She just realizes it as she says it. She doesn’t. Underneath all the pain is someone buried who she wants to know. She has no idea how she knows that, for he’s never been nice to her, yet somehow, she just does. 

Sherlock sways towards her, his nose poking her cheek, his forehead bumping against hers. 

He stays close, squeezes his eyes shut. 

 

“I can’t bear it anymore”, he whispers, a tear rolling down his cheek. 

 

Her heart aches. Acting on pure instinct she reaches out, touches him, cups his cheek, strokes it, then his hair. 

“I won’t leave you alone”, she whispers and then he pulls him into a hug, a tight hug, a hug to share her strength, to give him comfort. 

 

For a moment he freezes, struggles even, but Molly holds on tight, her heart pounding against her chest.

 

Everything inside her screams to not let go. 

 

His long fingers tear at her clothes, grab her hair. She squeezes her eyes shut, expects pain surging through her skull any second. 

 

She won’t let go. 

 

But Sherlock doesn’t pull. His fingers feel her hair, suddenly they’re buried in it. His other arm wraps around her. 

 

And then he weeps, his face buried in her sweater. 

 

“Molly”, he gasps. It’s a cry for help.

She only holds him tighter, strokes his hair and neck, starts whispering silly words. Tells him it’s going to be fine, that he’s strong, so strong. That he will get through this. That she will be there for him. 

 

That’s when he starts kissing her neck. They’re sloppy, wet kisses, open-mouthed, tongue licking her skin. Yet her body shivers and she gasps. 

Urgently, desperately he holds her now, sucks at her earlobe, bites into her jaw, kisses his way to her lips to capture them, as well. 

 

It’s her first real kiss. 

 

It’s overwhelming. His lips are hot and wet, his tongue spears into her mouth too deep, too demanding. She doesn’t have time to process what is happening. His tongue licks hers, licks between her upper lip and teeth. It feels odd. It feels wrong to be kissed like that. 

It shouldn’t be this way. 

Everything inside her screams that this is wrong, that he has destroyed something that could have been wonderful.

 

He has stolen this first kiss from her, has ruined it forever. 

 

As if he feels it, too, he suddenly pushes her away and starts running. 

  
She doesn’t see him again. 

 

But when he barges into her morgue ten years later, she can feel his warmth against her chest, can feel his hot lips on hers and taste his wet, velvety tongue in her mouth. 


End file.
